20 years later...
It was night, but there were no stars; black clouds blotted them out. There was only the dim, oily glow of the lanterns, glinting dull yellow on the Seine.
A man made his way slowly along the bridge spanning the river. He was tall and thin, long-limbed, and would have looked graceful if his movements weren't so stiff. His black hair was streaked with gray, his face deeply lined, though not entirely with age.
Now, he stopped walking and stared numbly down at the rain-swollen river, at the foamy, swirling gray water. It was like looking into his own mind. He trembled, his thoughts and emotions in a whirl. His entire world, his beliefs and values--things which had always seemed so straightforward, so self-evident--were crumbling.
Slowly, he set his cane down and climbed up onto the bridge's narrow railing. He stood there, eyes closed, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet as he listened to the dull roar of the water. The current was fast tonight.
*Forgive me,* he thought, and stepped off the rail.
As soon as Marius was safe, Valjean had gone after Javert, following his faint trail through the sewers and to the bridge over the River Seine. His heart raced. For some reason, he felt that it was of dire importance that he reach Javert as soon as possible, though he was probably mad to be pursuing him; Javert had let him go, but that didn't mean he would do so a second time.
Still, Valjean had to see him.
He caught sight of a tall, whippet-thin figure standing on the bridge's railing, staring down at the river. His heart froze as he realized what Javert meant to do. He shouted Javert's name, but it was too late; he was already plummeting toward the water.
Valjean didn't think, didn't hesitate. He ran toward the railing and jumped over. The water raced up at him, then came a bone-jarring impact that nearly knocked him unconscious. He sank below the surface; dark, cold water surrounded him, rushing into his eyes and mouth. He paddled madly until his head broke the surface, and he pulled in a great, gasping breath. The current pulled at his legs, trying to suck him back under, but he fought it, striking out at the water with his legs.
His eyes scanned the water. He caught a brief glimpse of dark hair before it vanished back under the surface, and dove for it; his hands found sodden cloth and clung tightly.
For God knew how long, he struggled to keep Javert's head above the surface as the current swept them along. The cold water soon numbed his limbs, but he refused to sink; he paddled madly with his free arm and fought the river, clinging to consciousness by a thread, until at the current carried them to a place where the river was wider and slower. Keeping an arm around Javert, Valjean paddled over to the banks and dragged himself onto solid ground. There he lay for some time, panting, lungs burning. He lost consciousness for awhile, and when he came to, his whole body ached like fire.
Valjean sat up, vomited water, and turned his face to the sky, squinting. It was daylight, and the sun was warm; he was in a meadow, with the river flowing slowly and tamely before him, sparkling in the sun. It was hard to believe it was that very same river which had nearly killed him. A wide, dirt path ran parallel to it.
Nearby, Javert lay on his side, still and pale. Valjean rolled him onto his back and placed an ear close to his mouth, but he heard no breath. "Damn," he muttered. He checked for a pulse; it was there, but very faint, rapid and weak. Pinching Javert's nose shut, he placed his mouth over the blue-tinged lips and breathed his air into Javert's body. The narrow chest rose and fell. "Breathe," muttered Valjean. Again, he forced his air into Javert's lungs. "Breathe!" he shouted, his voice rough with fear.
At last, Javert began to cough. Valjean exhaled heavily with relief.
*I just risked my life for this man,* he thought. *Why?*
Javert lay, breathing weakly through blue-tinged lips. Strands of wet hair lay across his face. He'd begun to shiver.
Valjean looked around. He had a vague idea of where they were; it would be a long walk back home, especially carrying an unconscious man, but he couldn't linger here. It was chilly, despite the sun, and both of them were soaking wet.
With a soft grunt, he lifted Javert, rising to his feet. The inspector was surprisingly light; he'd always been lean, of course, but now he was thin almost to the point of being unhealthy. That was strange; back in Toulon, he'd always been fanatical about keeping in good physical condition. At the moment, however, Valjean couldn't spare it much thought; he was exhausted, and all his willpower was bent toward putting one foot in front of the other.
He heard hoofbeats behind him and looked over his shoulder to see a carriage approaching. He waved.
The carriage slowed, and the driver peered out at him. "Need some help, Monsieur?"
"Yes, I...I saw this man drowning, and jumped into the Seine to help him. The river took us here. If you could take us back to the city..."
The man eyed him for a moment, then nodded. "Hop on."
Later, back in his own home, Valjean lay Javert down in his own bed. He removed the saturated clothes and wrapped the still, pale form in blankets. A fire flickered in the hearth.
Now, Javert stirred. His lids flickered and opened a crack. The eyes beneath were a dark, stormy gray; darker than usual, it seemed. "Where..." He blinked. "Valjean?"
Valjean nodded, a faint smile flitting across his lips.
"Why am I not dead?"
"Because I saved you, of course."
"You...? How? No one could swim in those currents."
"I'm strong. You've always known that. How do you feel?"
Javert shuddered slightly and closed his eyes. "Should've let me die," he murmured.
Valjean studied his face quietly for a long moment. "I recall something you said to me once, a long time ago. You told me that if you were to let me die, I would awaken in hell...that you were keeping me alive to give me a chance at redemption. Perhaps you were right. I was a different man back then; my heart was filled with hate for a world I saw as cruel and merciless. At any rate, I want to return the favor. I'm no holy man...but maybe, if you help me, I can save your soul."
Javert looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the tears glistening in his eyes. "I have no soul."
"You can't fool me, Javert." Impulsively, Valjean gathered one thin hand into his own and held it tight. His voice was deep, soft and gentle. "I know you aren't the machine you pretend to be. You're a man, with fears and longings and passions. Our lives have been bound together for so long; I believe there's a purpose in that, as there is in all things. I'm not going to let you go now."
Javert stared up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Then his face began to tremble. Valjean watched him wrestle for control, trying to master his emotions--a battle he lost as he broke down into tears.
Valjean gathered Javert into his arms, blankets and all, and smoothed his dark, tangled hair. He felt strangely relieved. If Javert could cry--if he had enough humanity left in him to cry--then perhaps there was hope. "It will be all right," he whispered. Long fingers, gnarled with age but still large and strong, slid into Javert's hair. "I'll help you, my friend."
It was night, but there were no stars; black clouds blotted them out. There was only the dim, oily glow of the lanterns, glinting dull yellow on the Seine.
A man made his way slowly along the bridge spanning the river. He was tall and thin, long-limbed, and would have looked graceful if his movements weren't so stiff. His black hair was streaked with gray, his face deeply lined, though not entirely with age.
Now, he stopped walking and stared numbly down at the rain-swollen river, at the foamy, swirling gray water. It was like looking into his own mind. He trembled, his thoughts and emotions in a whirl. His entire world, his beliefs and values--things which had always seemed so straightforward, so self-evident--were crumbling.
Slowly, he set his cane down and climbed up onto the bridge's narrow railing. He stood there, eyes closed, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet as he listened to the dull roar of the water. The current was fast tonight.
*Forgive me,* he thought, and stepped off the rail.
As soon as Marius was safe, Valjean had gone after Javert, following his faint trail through the sewers and to the bridge over the River Seine. His heart raced. For some reason, he felt that it was of dire importance that he reach Javert as soon as possible, though he was probably mad to be pursuing him; Javert had let him go, but that didn't mean he would do so a second time.
Still, Valjean had to see him.
He caught sight of a tall, whippet-thin figure standing on the bridge's railing, staring down at the river. His heart froze as he realized what Javert meant to do. He shouted Javert's name, but it was too late; he was already plummeting toward the water.
Valjean didn't think, didn't hesitate. He ran toward the railing and jumped over. The water raced up at him, then came a bone-jarring impact that nearly knocked him unconscious. He sank below the surface; dark, cold water surrounded him, rushing into his eyes and mouth. He paddled madly until his head broke the surface, and he pulled in a great, gasping breath. The current pulled at his legs, trying to suck him back under, but he fought it, striking out at the water with his legs.
His eyes scanned the water. He caught a brief glimpse of dark hair before it vanished back under the surface, and dove for it; his hands found sodden cloth and clung tightly.
For God knew how long, he struggled to keep Javert's head above the surface as the current swept them along. The cold water soon numbed his limbs, but he refused to sink; he paddled madly with his free arm and fought the river, clinging to consciousness by a thread, until at the current carried them to a place where the river was wider and slower. Keeping an arm around Javert, Valjean paddled over to the banks and dragged himself onto solid ground. There he lay for some time, panting, lungs burning. He lost consciousness for awhile, and when he came to, his whole body ached like fire.
Valjean sat up, vomited water, and turned his face to the sky, squinting. It was daylight, and the sun was warm; he was in a meadow, with the river flowing slowly and tamely before him, sparkling in the sun. It was hard to believe it was that very same river which had nearly killed him. A wide, dirt path ran parallel to it.
Nearby, Javert lay on his side, still and pale. Valjean rolled him onto his back and placed an ear close to his mouth, but he heard no breath. "Damn," he muttered. He checked for a pulse; it was there, but very faint, rapid and weak. Pinching Javert's nose shut, he placed his mouth over the blue-tinged lips and breathed his air into Javert's body. The narrow chest rose and fell. "Breathe," muttered Valjean. Again, he forced his air into Javert's lungs. "Breathe!" he shouted, his voice rough with fear.
At last, Javert began to cough. Valjean exhaled heavily with relief.
*I just risked my life for this man,* he thought. *Why?*
Javert lay, breathing weakly through blue-tinged lips. Strands of wet hair lay across his face. He'd begun to shiver.
Valjean looked around. He had a vague idea of where they were; it would be a long walk back home, especially carrying an unconscious man, but he couldn't linger here. It was chilly, despite the sun, and both of them were soaking wet.
With a soft grunt, he lifted Javert, rising to his feet. The inspector was surprisingly light; he'd always been lean, of course, but now he was thin almost to the point of being unhealthy. That was strange; back in Toulon, he'd always been fanatical about keeping in good physical condition. At the moment, however, Valjean couldn't spare it much thought; he was exhausted, and all his willpower was bent toward putting one foot in front of the other.
He heard hoofbeats behind him and looked over his shoulder to see a carriage approaching. He waved.
The carriage slowed, and the driver peered out at him. "Need some help, Monsieur?"
"Yes, I...I saw this man drowning, and jumped into the Seine to help him. The river took us here. If you could take us back to the city..."
The man eyed him for a moment, then nodded. "Hop on."
Later, back in his own home, Valjean lay Javert down in his own bed. He removed the saturated clothes and wrapped the still, pale form in blankets. A fire flickered in the hearth.
Now, Javert stirred. His lids flickered and opened a crack. The eyes beneath were a dark, stormy gray; darker than usual, it seemed. "Where..." He blinked. "Valjean?"
Valjean nodded, a faint smile flitting across his lips.
"Why am I not dead?"
"Because I saved you, of course."
"You...? How? No one could swim in those currents."
"I'm strong. You've always known that. How do you feel?"
Javert shuddered slightly and closed his eyes. "Should've let me die," he murmured.
Valjean studied his face quietly for a long moment. "I recall something you said to me once, a long time ago. You told me that if you were to let me die, I would awaken in hell...that you were keeping me alive to give me a chance at redemption. Perhaps you were right. I was a different man back then; my heart was filled with hate for a world I saw as cruel and merciless. At any rate, I want to return the favor. I'm no holy man...but maybe, if you help me, I can save your soul."
Javert looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the tears glistening in his eyes. "I have no soul."
"You can't fool me, Javert." Impulsively, Valjean gathered one thin hand into his own and held it tight. His voice was deep, soft and gentle. "I know you aren't the machine you pretend to be. You're a man, with fears and longings and passions. Our lives have been bound together for so long; I believe there's a purpose in that, as there is in all things. I'm not going to let you go now."
Javert stared up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Then his face began to tremble. Valjean watched him wrestle for control, trying to master his emotions--a battle he lost as he broke down into tears.
Valjean gathered Javert into his arms, blankets and all, and smoothed his dark, tangled hair. He felt strangely relieved. If Javert could cry--if he had enough humanity left in him to cry--then perhaps there was hope. "It will be all right," he whispered. Long fingers, gnarled with age but still large and strong, slid into Javert's hair. "I'll help you, my friend."